


Till Guns Blazing

by stone_in_focus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Dean, Established Relationship, Fluff, Human Castiel, Light Dom/sub, M/M, One Shot, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Poor Sam, Romance, Season/Series 09, Smut, Top Castiel, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean goes ice skating with Cas. Yeah. He's got it worse for Cas than he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till Guns Blazing

**Author's Note:**

> Slight AU in the fact that it assumes a certain deleted line from "The End" was put back in. Update: Finally decided to use proper capitalization based on feedback since this is a longer drabble. :)

You're gonna friggin' kill him.

You've been working a case near the U of M campus in Minneapolis for two days now—a reported "ten-foot Gollum" who's made the local coffee shops its stomping grounds. The details aren't all lining up, but your money's on a wendigo that seems to've developed an appetite for granola eaters. Not gonna lie, though; your heart ain't exactly breaking when you find the body stumps of yet another flannel-wearing, girly-jeaned douchebag. It's not even called a fucking fedora, asshole.

But you wish hipsters were the worst of your problems. One minute, you and Cas're making a run to the corner liquor store, and the next, Cas is AWOL. You'd think the dude would be easier to keep track of without his wings now that he can't go all David Copperfield on your ass, but ever since Cas became your average Joe Schmoe, it's like he's a kid and the world is his freaking candy store. Always with the staring and the touching and the smelling—which, okay, is a _little_ cute, but not when you're jabbing him in the side to stop it because he's not the only one who's staring anymore.

Also, _never_ take him to Costco.

You know in your head Cas can't be too far off, but when you don't see him peering into storefront windows or asking the bus driver about the best ethnic restaurants in the area, your stomach starts doing crazy eights. On top of that, it's ten a.m. on a Sunday. In February. In Minnesota. Not only are you freezing your ass off, you forgot about that awesome bit where they don't sell liquor in Minnesota on Sundays. _Anywhere._ So yeah, you're just a little fucking pissed because Cas is fucking gone and it's fucking cold as balls and goddammit _there's no fucking liquor._

Nerves begin to fry when his phone keeps going to voicemail every time you hit the #2. Sam tells you he hasn't heard one peep from Cas, neither. But just as you start sweatin' that maybe Skeletor got a hold of him—or worse, angels—you spot him several blocks down on one of the park benches overlooking an…ice skating rink?

You throw your arms up and beeline it towards him. "What the hell, Cas?"

"Look, Dean." He turns to you, pointing towards the group of bundled-up kids stumbling their way across the ice. It's more than a little uncomfortable, like watching a baby Stay Puft marshmallow walk for the first time. "One of the younger girls has fallen and scraped her hands, and yet she gets right back up. So persistent, your species is."

 _This_ is what Curious George has been up to? You clench your jaw, and it's all you can do to keep yourself from…you don't know; punching him in the arm or something. "I called you like ten times. Why didn't you answer?"

"My apologies. I'd forgotten to recharge my phone this morning, and it seems the battery has died." He does that thing where he smirks to himself, and you know you're gonna roll your eyes at whatever comes out his mouth next. "'Died.' Are humans so dramatic about all their appliances?"

Yeah. Yep. You're gonna kill him.

"Dean, we should go ice skating."

"What?" You almost want to say that he can't be serious, but when is anything Cas has ever said _not_ serious? "Okay, well, uh…one, we got a case to solve, and two…" You're sure there's a two somewhere in there. "Two…we got a case to solve. And I'm not planning on sticking around playing _Wendigos of Fargo_ for longer than we have to."

"Fargo is in the state of North Dakota, Dean." Thanks for the geography lesson, buddy. "But you're right. We have work to do." He looks away, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I just thought it would be something enjoyable for us to do together."

Fuck.

You might've learned a thing or two about ice skating back when you wanted to get into Chelsea Haymaker's pants—chick was obsessed with making it big in the winter Olympics—but you ain't itchin' to surround yourself with a bunch of snot-nosed kids, especially when you're not sure if Cas has ever put on a pair of skates in his life. Don't want him accidentally bowling any of 'em over.

Still, guess you can't get away with calling Biggerson's a date anymore, and it's not like you've really given yourselves much of a chance to hang out between all the monster-ganking lately. Well, other than…you know. Ordering pizza.

You heave a long-ass sigh, slapping him on the back of the shoulder. "All right, Dorothy Hamill. We can go ice skating. But for now, let's just stick to the task at hand, 'kay? We'll see about working on your triple axel afterwards."

Then Cas just beams at you like it's Christmas morning, and it's like the freaking sun finally comes out.

You, Sam, and Cas end up tracking the case four hours north to Bemidji. Turns out some cannibalistic cult is behind this—yeah, those dumbasses are performing rituals to become wendigos on _purpose_ —and they're meaning to move operations to creep in on the city folk. Guess they forgot to figure the three of you into their contingency plans. Whoops.

There's a few cuts and bruises after it all goes down, and you jack up your shoulder again, but hey, least those bike-riding dicks can get fucked up on pills and listen to their crappy music in peace tonight.

As for you, you're just glad it's not Sunday. Your arm might be hurting like a bitch, but your friend Jack Daniel's knows just how to cure that. Cas is sweet on you, too, bringing you a fresh-baked strawberry rhubarb pie from the local bakery while you take it easy for a bit. He also insists on watching a movie about pie, which, dude, you're all for until you find out it's actually some weird artsy flick about the number pi that you know is gonna make your head throb afterwards. But whatever. You've got a mouthful of gooey goodness with Cas keeping you warm, and right now, you don't need nothin' else.

That is, till Sammy comes barging in, asking about his computer—okay, so maybe you'n Cas were looking for a little inspiration last night—and then notices your new stash. "Really, Dean?"

"Survival, Sam," you say matter-of-factly. "Alcohol keeps the body burning longer. You know, science? I'm not gonna let myself get caught stranded without it again. And anyway, what kind of backasswards state doesn't sell liquor on Sundays? Especially when there's fuck all to do 'round here."

"I don't know, Dean. Same state that lets same-sex couples get married?" He grabs the laptop on the nightstand and shoves it into his backpack, but not before giving it a wipe-down and giving you the stink eye. "Here's an idea: if you're really that bored, I'm sure you could find something more productive to do down at City Hall. Because my idea of a Sunday? Doesn't involve disassembling and disinfecting my entire laptop. I'm pretty sure not even God wants to know where your hands have been."

Now you're the one giving him the stink eye, but then peanut gallery over here has to pipe up. "Oh, I think God knows where they've been…" Cas says, adding an ever-so-helpful, "…that is, if he still indeed exists."

"Okay, um…" Sam blinks, and by that look, you know he's gonna need some industrial-strength brain cleaner. "Listen, no one's happier than me that you and Cas finally got a clue, but leave my personal belongings out of…actually, I'm not going to finish that sentence."

Probably doesn't want to hear about the toothbrush, huh?

The next morning, you're back up and ready to roll, and while chowing down on your last strips of bacon, Cas slides you a map, pointing to a place about twenty minutes east. "Dean, I want to go here."

You cock an eyebrow at the name. "Cass Lake?" Crap, you did promise him, didn't you? Ugh, and you only got out of bed a half-hour ago. Well, would've been earlier, 'cept you couldn't get your dick to calm the fuck down when Cas started doing this neck thing that…shit, you're gonna need another cold shower just thinking about it. "Can I least finish my breakfast first?"

"Yes," he leans over, the bastard looking a little too smug for not even nine a.m., "it would be wise to replenish your energy."

Sam's already packed up and grabbing the keys for the sweet antique roadster you repaired back at the bunker garage, but you have to tell him you'll catch up with him later. And you'll admit you had your doubts, but once you scrounge up a couple pair of skates and a six-pack and head out, it's actually kinda…nice, y'know? The woods quiet and all covered in snow; not another soul around for miles. Kinda like that real peaceful feeling you get when you're dreaming about being out on that dock, giving absolutely zero shits except for whatever's on the end of your fishing line. 'Cept you're the one taking the bait now, your fingers squeezing the wheel when he's squeezing your thigh. Shoulda seen it coming—all that time you kept searching, but he's the one who kept finding you.

Funny how quitting feels a lot like winning.

It takes you a few minutes to get your sea legs when you get out on the ice, but you remember for the most part what foot goes where. Cas is a different story, 'course; guess he's lost more than just one kind of grace. And maybe you're going to hell for it, but come on, how could you _not_ bust a gut laughing when Twinkle Toes is wobbling towards you like he drank the whole damn liquor store again?

The third time he falls, he bitches at you for not being more supportive. All right, all right; you'll stop being an ass. "Here." You help him get to his feet. "Grab onto me and hold tight, 'kay?"

"You mean…hold hands."

It's more a statement than a question, but you're still reeling for an answer. "I guess, yeah, if you put it that way." You might've swapped more than just spit, but a golden flaky crust with a warm filling is really the only sort of mush you can stomach. Well, okay, _maybe_ some cuddling, too, but then you just end up shoving Cas to the other side of the bed, anyway, because dude's a freaking furnace after like five minutes.

You don't know if it's just the cold getting to you, but God, his eyes are blue, and even though you're pretty sure your cheeks are red enough to put Rudolph out of a job, to hell with it. You're taking the bait.

It's not any less awkward with a grown-ass man clinging to you for life, and it tries your patience more than a bit, but eventually he loosens up and gives you some breathing room. Maybe the sweaty palms ain't half bad when it's as close to flying as you're ever gonna get. Thankfully, this type of flying doesn't make you want to toss your cookies afterwards.

"Flying…" Cas seems to've gone deep in his head somewhere when you slow to a stop. "Yes. This is exactly what flying is like."

Then he grips your shoulder, and you get to thinkin' he's not talking about skating anymore.

By the time you get back to the cabin in Bemidji, you're out of breath and soaked from head to toe after a spur-of-the-moment snowball fight—ain't the complete human experience without one—but that don't make one lick of difference 'cause Cas is happy.

And fuck it; you're happy, too.

You snatch a couple packets of hot chocolate, griping that you have to use water instead of milk, but it still does the trick of warming up your insides. Cas sees to it to take care of the outsides, wrapping the both of you up tight with a blanket he lugged out of storage. "That reminds me," he says as he sneaks in next to you. "We're low on burritos."

These days, you're not sure if you simply don't bother scratching your head when he comes up with a line out of nowhere or if you just understand him that well that you don't even question it. And maybe it should scare the hell out of you that he makes that much sense, but truth is, it's good, not asking questions. Not doubting your every move, not trying to figure out where it all stands. Not wondering if you'll make it to the end of the day—shit, end of ten seconds sometimes.

For once, you just… _know._

"You don't have to keep referring to humans as my species," you say, remembering your conversation from the other day. "You're one of us now. Hell, even when you had your wings, you were more human than a lot of dicks I've run into."

"Thank you." He nods towards you. "I've had an excellent teacher."

You snort into your half-drunk cocoa. "You're just sayin' that 'cause you're my–"

The word gets caught behind your lips, and you run your tongue over your teeth like you got something stuck in 'em. You haven't even heard Cas use the term yet, and you're already mooning over him like a goddamn schoolgirl. The way he stares at you with those stupid puppy eyes doesn't make it one bit easier, turning your stomach all twisty like you're back doing loops around the lake.

Jesus, you've got it bad.

"Uh, well…" Clearing the throat. Yeah. That should really help make it, uh, _not awkward._ "Let's just say you've taught me a few things, too, big boy. Speaking of which…" You jerk your head at the bed that hasn't been made since you got here. "Think I'm callin' it a night. You comin'?"

"That depends." He bumps your knee with his, leaning in as his voice gets real low. "Are you referring to the literal sense, or an orgasm?"

Doesn't come out sounding nearly as hot as Cas tries to make it, but it still gives you chills. "How 'bout we go for two outta two?"

Then he kisses you, and you're gone.

You can't even get the lights off before your clothes are all over the floor, and you're already half-cocked when Cas pins you down on the bed and rubs his dick against yours. 'Cause nothing turns you on more than someone who doesn't screw around when he wants something, especially when he goes after that spot right behind your ear—and bam, you're Silly Putty.

It's almost embarrassing just how fast Cas can pull that switch, and you're trying your damnedest to hold back a moan because _fuck,_ your dick is aching for his hand. He's just fucking grinning at you, too, having figured out all the places that drive you over the edge so he knows exactly where to draw the line. He's got your balls in his clutches, working you over with his fingers, but the bastard still doesn't give you the courtesy of a head rub even when you're completely hard and beading at the tip. If this keeps going, you might have to start thinking of dead kittens soon.

You decide you've got a better plan, though, and you push into him, nipping at his collarbone and covering every last square inch of his chest with the wet, open heat of your mouth. Cas lets you go with it, thank God, and you feel his eyes on you as you run your tongue down, using your teeth to pull at the elastic on his briefs. He smells so damn good, and you take him in, 'cause buddy, payback's a _bitch._ Let 'im watch while you slick your lips over that big fat dick of his.

Guess it ends up being too much for him to stand—it's not long before he takes control, clamping a hand on your head and fucking your mouth even harder. Then comes the arch of his neck and the strangled " _Dean_ " in his throat, but before you can suck him off, he grabs you by the hair—and God, could he be any sexier? "Did you really think I was going to let you get away with that?"

You sure as hell hope he doesn't.

You're on your knees more than ever these days, but it ain't exactly praying. More like begging, actually, when he directs you on all fours, sliding a couple fingers inside of you just to watch you squirm. He's taking his sweet time lubing you up, putting his dick between your cheeks and rubbing the head up against your asshole, but holding back just enough to make you grit your teeth and bark out a demand. "Fuck's sake, Cas, just _fuck_ me already!"

He leans over, tilting your chin back. "I don't think I heard you correctly, Dean."

"I need…" You swallow hard, shutting your eyes. "I _need_ you, Cas. I need you inside of me so bad I can't even fucking think straight."

You feel him ease up slightly, smoothing a palm up your backside. "Is that true?" His voice's gone soft, and you realize he's dropped the act.

"Yes. Yeah," you heave out, stomach muscles clenching. "Sometimes, you're all I think about."

Cas doesn't say another word after that. Only noise you hear is the groan in the back of his throat and the grunt under your breath when he slips into you.

It hurts at first. It always does, no matter how good a prep job or how gentle he is, but like everything else, you blow through the pain till you hit somethin' else. This time, it comes sooner than later with Cas nailing the fuck out of your prostate—who the hell knew dudes had a G-spot—and it gives you such an awful case of blue balls that you think your brain might explode before your nuts. The sweat's streaming down, corner of your eyes're watering, and you want Cas to touch you so bad, you're gonna have to resort to jerking yourself off if he makes you suffer much longer. "Cas. Cas, _please._ "

You let out the loudest goddamn moan when he grips you from behind, his hand still greased up from the lube as he strokes you up and down and massages the head of your cock. Everything feels so fucking _tight_ inside of you, and holy shit, you don't know if you're going to make it.

But then you give in and let go. You finally let go.

Cas lets you ride it out as you come into his hand, finishing off not more than a few seconds behind you, and it's like you're short an entire lung as you dig your fingers into the sheets and gasp for air. You're seeing stars even after you settle back down, your head stuck somewhere on the other side of the moon as you try working those Jello-for-knees around Cas' thigh. Feels only right to let him slap that perky ass cheek of yours for good measure. Or maybe you're just using it as an excuse to get in there and motorboat him. "Dammit, Cas." Your nose's squashed up against his chest, words all muffled. "Where are you learning this shit? 'Cause I sure as hell ain't _that_ good a teacher."

The fucker just laughs at you, grabbing a rumpled up dirty t-shirt to clean himself up before handing it to you. "I'd had my fill of the pizza man, so I moved onto the cable guy."

"Seriously?" Clearly, you gotta check out this cable guy. "Wait, you're not doing that thing where you mean literally, are you?"

"No, Dean. Just sex videos."

"'Kay, good. Well, let's keep it that way." You don't realize till after you've said it that, yeah, you actually said it. For Christ's sake, Winchester, jealous much? "I didn't even think you'd be into half the things we've done. Hell, didn't think _I'd_ be into half the things we've done. Like the other night—butt plugs and light bondage? I mean, not that I'm complaining, but…"

"Mmm." Cas steals a kiss. "What's the old human adage? 'That's just how I roll.'"

Hold on, what?

You must've looked as confused as hell because his brow gets all wrinkled up. "That is the correct saying, yes?"

"No, uh, yeah." You ease back onto your pillow, taking a sudden interest in the ceiling. "You got it right."

It isn't lost on you that you're already two months into 2014. You still remember being knee-deep in Croats and that crumbling shithole you called an outfit; how some Bizarro version of you was more than a little too willing to put blood on your hands; the stench on their bodies and the fear in people's eyes.

'Cept Cas. Cas, who didn't even hesitate when he told you, _"Of course."_

"Dean, what is it?"

_"The only thing that I think we have left, Dean and me, is each other."_

"Nothin', just…nothin'."

Now you've never believed any of this planets-aligning, "everything happens for a reason" mumbo jumbo. Not when you've seen the shit you've seen; not when the body count's piling up and you remember every single one of them by name. And don't let people get you started on this "higher power" business, 'cause heaven—well, not even _heaven_ can seem to get its damn ducks in a row. You look for some kind of order in the universe, you'll drive yourself straight to the loony bin. The universe is _broke,_ man.

Some days, it feels like you're the butt of some huge cosmic joke, you and Cas. A human and an ex-angel that are destined—hell, maybe doomed—to keep bumping into each other till they finally bump uglies? Like one of those lame romcoms Sam rents when he doesn't think you're looking. You can already see the tagline: _There's more than one way to fall._

But then Cas goes and says shit like that, and you gotta wonder if the universe is trying to tell you something after all.

Cas scoots close again and puts an arm around you. This time, you don't even push him away when your bed turns into a freaking sauna. 'Cause whatever kind of future's left out there for you, something out there seems to be reminding you that no matter how fucked up your situation gets, you still got Cas. Till guns blazing, baby.

Maybe you ain't the marrying kind.

But then again, you were never the praying kind, neither.


End file.
